Death Beneath Jerusalem

by Roger Bax

  Hayson’s fingers closed over the bulb again, and he cursed himself silently for his carelessness. Now that his plan was so near complete fulfilment it was more than ever necessary not to give Willoughby any cause for suspicion. The trouble was, his own hurry was greater even than it seemed, for time was getting perilously short.

  “When I think of Esther I can hardly stop to be careful,” he lied blatantly. “Ah—here’s the letter. Acknowledging a communication—nothing that matters in that. Plenty of room for you to scribble a message too.”

  “Better try and get my hands loose somehow,” said Willoughby. “They feel pretty numb.”

  “I’ll have another shot,” whispered Hayson. He set to work with a will, and success rewarded him. If he had known the secret of the knots he could not have freed the hands with more agility.

  “Excellent, excellent,” breathed Willoughby. “They’re a bit cramped, but the blood’s running back. You’re a good man to have in a tight corner, Hayson. I hope we both get out. I’ll remember this.”

  Hayson chafed Willoughby’s fingers. “Better now? Here’s the pencil—don’t drop it. I’ll shine a light on the paper. Ready? Shall I dictate? It’ll be quicker.”

  “Carry on,” said Willoughby. “I’ll write——”

  “Suppose we say, ‘Ali Kemal has kidnapped myself, my daughter, and Hayson, and has taken us this morning to Petra. He is about to lead a revolt of the tribesmen throughout Transjordan——’ ”

  “Just a minute,” said Willoughby, “you’re too fast—‘has taken us this morning to Petra’—I suppose he will take us to Petra? We don’t want the military going off on a wild goose chase.”

  It was a bad moment for Hayson, but he played his cards superbly. “Esther’s there, Mr. Willoughby. At least, so Kemal says. We’ve no other information—we’ve got to take his word for it. It’s that or nothing. Her life’s at stake, and we’ve got to take a chance.”

  “Very well. I think you’re right—‘is about to lead a revolt of the tribesmen throughout Transjordan.’ ”

  Hayson breathed again. “Better say, ‘we understand large ransom motive for capture.’ Got that? Shall we say, ‘Suggest you take no notice of threats against our personal safety’?”

  “Not ‘suggest’—‘insist,’ ” said Willoughby between his teeth.

  Hayson smiled in the darkness—these Englishmen! One could hate their domination and yet admire their courage.

  “ ‘Insist you take no notice. Advise immediate dispatch’—that’s not too strong, is it?—‘advise immediate dispatch of all available troops to Petra’—got that?—‘to smash resistance before revolt spreads.’ That’s enough, isn’t it?”

  Willoughby nodded. A drop of sweat fell from his forehead on to the paper. “I’ll underline ‘immediate,’ though it won’t be necessary. If I know the military, they’ll be off the mark within five minutes of getting the paper.” He added his signature, and Hayson grabbed the message from his fingers.

  Willoughby sank back wearily against the rock wall. He was not a young man, and he had been violently handled. “Good luck, Hayson—God bless you.”

  Hayson gave a low whistle. An Arab came running with a flare and saluted. “Here’s a message for the military,” said Hayson sharply in Arabic. “We’re ten minutes late—hurry! You know what to say.”

  The Arab saluted and was gone.

  Willoughby was staring, unable to believe his eyes and ears. “What are you doing, Hayson? Are you insane?”

  Hayson gently patted his shoulder. “Listen to me, Mr. Francis Willoughby. You’ve been duped—and I’m sorry for you, for I’ve learned to respect you as a man. I’m no Englishman—I’m a rebel and an Arab. No—don’t say anything. You’ll need your strength. The whole of to-night’s proceedings were arranged. I shot Jackson—a pity, but war is war. They tied me up so that I should retain your confidence. I planned everything—naturally I am a little jubilant that it worked so well. I am as certain as you are that the military will act on your letter. All the Arabs in Palestine and Transjordan will rise behind your army. When it gets to Petra it will find nothing but ambushes. You are to stay here——”

  “My daughter,” whispered Willoughby weakly. “Esther, where is she?”

  “I am glad to be able to tell you, Mr. Willoughby, that for the moment your daughter is safe in Jerusalem. I let Ali Kemal know by an arranged signal that she had not returned home—that our plans had worked out properly. He knew then that he could say she was on her way to Petra without your knowing better.”

  “Who’s looking after her? Where’s Garve?”

  “Garve—Garve—Garve, always Garve,” cried Hayson in sudden fury. “I neither know nor care —he’s out of it. He’s probably at Tel Aviv by now, and I hope his body rots there. As for Esther —when the revolt’s over I shall look after her myself.”

  “Not if I live,” cried Willoughby. “You’re a traitor and a scoundrel—a plotting, lying traitor—you’ll hang for this.”

  “Gently, Mr. Willoughby. You do not realize how greatly you are in my debt. I have relieved your mind of anxiety about Esther—or some of it —and we have no immediate intention of killing you. So far as is possible, I shall do my best to save your life—if only because I have accepted so often your liberal hospitality, and because I have a very great affection for your daughter. For the next few hours you are a prisoner of war, and will be treated as such. I will see that you have food, drink, and tobacco brought to you. But I warn you that any sign of weakness on my part, any suspicion that I am on too friendly terms with you, and my own life will be in danger. Already, though I lead, I am watched—already the sheikhs suspect me of intrigue with you. If they kill me you and Esther are lost. I advise you, therefore, to be discreet. Farewell for now.”

  Willoughby stared into the growing darkness, watching the retreating light. His thoughts were in a whirl. Dimly he felt that he should not have signed—that he should have known it was all a plot. Yet it had all been so natural—Hayson had acted his part so well. What a conspirator! What a leader!

  If only he had not signed. He thought miserably of the troops crowding out of the city, straining to reach Petra on his instructions. And Esther—if only … if only …

  “Esther, Esther,” he groaned. The rocky tunnel seemed to take up the cry in mockery, and “Esther, Esther,” was hurled back at him in waves of ever-diminishing sound.

  17. Garve Turns Housebreaker

  Garve’s spirits, keyed to concert pitch by the fast night run and the sense of urgency which had increased as the distance lessened, drooped suddenly as the Ford came once more to a standstill outside the Willoughby residence. The windows were dark and dead, and so were those of Hayson’s house in the background. This was anti-climax. To be up all night on a story was enjoyable enough, but to be hanging about in the early hours of the morning in a peacefully sleeping city, looking for trouble where none existed, was both boring and absurd.

  Had Garve been a less thorough reporter he would either have set off again for Tel Aviv at this point or gone home to bed in disgust. In either case the history of Palestine would have been very different, though he would probably not have lived to have told it. So convincing was the aspect of the silent houses—so utterly improbable did it seem that anything nefarious had happened in them, that at one moment Garve’s foot actually hesitated over the self-starter. Logic, and his professional training, prevented him. Unless his reasoning had been hopelessly faulty, this morning was the morning for action. It was true that no house had ever worn a more innocent appearance, yet silence could be anything but innocent. In any case, he had driven many miles at a furious rate to make sure, and make sure he would, even if it meant a burglary. He recalled several occasions in his early days as a reporter when by “making sure” against all probabilities he had landed a spectacular story.

  He advanced cautiously up the drive. If nothing had happened, and all the inhabitants of the house were soundly asleep, there was no purp
ose in waking them. On the other hand, if there were anything unusual about the place, silence might be essential to safety. Garve knew from long experience how quickly and noiselessly the Arabs could move. He proceeded on the assumption that they were lying in wait for him. He walked up the middle of the drive, well clear of prickly pear and cactus, trusting in the bad light to prevent anyone taking a successful potshot at him.

  The front door was tightly closed, and across the windows of the rooms on either side of it curtains had been drawn so carefully that there was not even a chink to peer through. Garve flashed his torch from side to side, and suddenly leaped. One of the lounge casement windows was slightly open. Garve knew the Willoughby household. Jackson, faithfully discharging his thankless duties, was a tyrant about windows. Every night, before retiring to rest in his room next to Willoughby’s, he insisted on making a personal tour of inspection of the downstairs rooms to see that every window was fastened. Whether the windows were shut or open, intrusion by night was always a possibility, but if the intruder had first to break in, there was more chance of his being heard, particularly if he were more skilled in the art of assassination than of burglary. So at least Jackson had always argued, and he had acted accordingly.

  Cautiously Garve opened the window wide and put a leg over the sill. There was, he considered, always a possibility that for once the window had been overlooked, and if Jackson heard anyone climbing in he was as likely as not to shoot first, and ask questions afterwards.

  Inside the room Garve listened, motionless, in the darkness. Somewhere in the hall a big clock was ticking. There was no other sound of any sort. It was a new and eerie experience for Garve —breaking into a house at night. When he listened, the very walls seemed to be listening too. Try as he might, he could not make his movements noiseless. His shoes were strong and heavy, and at each step the toes gave a little tap on the floor. His very first movement caused a board to creak horribly.

  “I’m a rotten burglar,” thought Garve. “Better take my shoes off.”

  As he moved his right foot to get at the lace it made a curious sucking sound, as though it were coming away from treacle.

  “Funny,” said Garve under his breath. Shielding his torch, he let its dim rays fall upon the boards at his feet. For a moment he stared at the dark trickle incredulously; then he turned the full light of the torch upon it, and followed it across the floor to its source by the fireplace.

  “Good God!”he ejaculated. There no longer seemed any need for caution. In two strides he was over by the body and staring horrified into Jackson’s dead face. By the light of the torch it was chalk white, except where the blood had congealed round the gaping wound in the neck. Obviously he had bled to death, and quickly—it looked as though his jugular vein had been severed. Judging by the state of the room, the great dark patch on the carpet, the broad rivulet across the boards, his body had drained dry.

  “Messy but merciful,” thought Garve, and promptly turned his attention to the rest of the room. He was not surprised now to find signs of a struggle all about him. Many people had marched over these polished boards, which were dirty with the marks of feet and scattered gravel. Two wooden chairs were overturned, a vase of flowers lay in fragments against the window, and on the settee a tell-tale coil of rope had been left behind.

  Garve proceeded grimly to search the room. He had only one thought in his mind now—to find Esther, dead or alive. He dared not contemplate her fate. He could telephone the police from here, but what could they do? Primarily it was vital to obtain more information. Clearly the house had been raided. The question was, who had been there, who had been taken, and where to?

  A child could have deduced the answers to the first two questions. On the little occasional table the relics of a sociable gathering had been left untouched. Garve examined the ash-tray, which was eloquent. There was the heavy ash and moist dottle of a pipe—that would be Jackson’s. Yes, Garve could see the pipe now, lying in the grate where it had fallen. There were eight cigarette stubs—seven of them were Virginian—those would be the ones that Willoughby had smoked—and one was gold-tipped and Turkish. Garve recognized it at once as Hayson’s. So the man had been here—but not for long, for he had smoked only one cigarette. The question was, had Esther been there too? She might have smoked some of the Virginian, but she preferred Turkish, and Hayson would have offered her one.

  Garve’s torch passed on. There was whisky on the table, a soda siphon, a carafe of water, and several glasses. Three of them were dirty—used by Willoughby, Jackson, and Hayson. They all drank whisky, and Esther hated it. If she had been here she had drunk nothing.

  But she must have been there—Garve had left her at the gate himself. But surely, if she had come in, they would all have gone to bed—after a last drink, anyway. If Willoughby was still up when the assailants arrived, as seemed likely since Jackson was shot down fully dressed, it was almost certain that Esther had not arrived at that time.

  What time had the attack occurred? Garve stepped across and felt Jackson’s body. Bloodless though it was, it was still warm. Garve picked up the pipe from the grate—why, even that was warm—just.

  The events of the morning were falling into place. The attack had been quite recent, and the household had still been waiting up for Esther. What had happened to Esther between the time Garve had dropped her at the gate and now? And if Hayson had been here only a short time, what had he been doing when he wasn’t here? If anything had happened to Esther, Hayson was almost certainly responsible. The problem was to find Hayson.

  To find Hayson? But how? Night was racing on to morning, and he might be anywhere—in Jerusalem or out of it. As the leader of the impending revolt the probability was that he would stay in the city—but where?

  Though time was desperately short, it was obviously essential in the first place to explore the Willoughby house, and make sure that murder had not been done in any of the other rooms. Garve ran through them quickly, flashing his torch now without fear. The servants’ quarters were empty. Not a bed in the house had been slept in. Esther’s bedroom, spick and span to the last detail, had clearly not been entered that night. Everywhere Garve drew a blank. The house was deserted. From the window of Esther’s room Garve stared out thoughtfully across the rough garden that led to Hayson’s. His windows, too, were dark and forbidding, and there was no reason to suppose that his house would be any less deserted than the Willoughbys’. Garve hesitated, uncertain what to do, and the fate of Jerusalem hung in the balance. What could he do? He must find Hayson, but it was impossible to comb the city. Behind those dark windows, perhaps, there might be some hint of his whereabouts, some evidence overlooked, something which, though it could not help the police to stop the revolt, might yet help them to suppress it. It was a long chance, but there was nothing else to do but look.

  Garve felt more like a burglar than ever as he approached Hayson’s house; but the thought of Jackson’s bloodless body lying in the darkness behind him gave an edge to his determination. Hayson, however, had been more careful about his windows. Garve walked round the house, carefully scrutinizing each entrance, but without exception they were securely fastened.

  Eventually he decided that the french doors from the loggia presented the least difficult problem to the unskilful housebreaker. It was quite clear that he could not hope to get in silently. He did not believe Hayson was in the house, but Hayson’s servant might be. The only thing to do was to break the window and then see what happened.

  It was the work of a moment to pick out from the boulder-strewn garden a piece of rock of the necessary length and heaviness. Using no more violence than he could help, Garve smote the pane of glass nearest the catch and it shattered completely. The fragments fell, in the main, inside the room on the carpet; but, even so, the noise of the blow and the splintering was startling. Garve listened tensely, his hand on his revolver. If he met any resistance now he was quite determined to shoot. The seconds passed and no sound came from the
house. Garve listened, his ear at the broken pane, for the telltale creak of a board. Presently he ventured to insert his hand through the hole and turn the handle. The door swung outwards, easily and noiselessly. He stepped into the room.

  His torch revealed nothing here—it was the lounge where he had sat with Hayson when they were discussing their visit to the quarries. Hayson’s own study was obviously the place to ransack, but first Garve felt impelled to visit the upstairs rooms. This creeping about dark houses, expecting at any moment to feel the blade of a knife in one’s back, was not a pastime which appealed to him. Once he had assured himself that the house was empty, he could search quickly and at peace. Room by room he worked through the building at the point of his gun till only the study was left. Yes; everyone had gone. He returned to Hayson’s sanctum. His roving torch picked out the well-equipped laboratory running along one wall and the shelves of ancient pottery and other relics. Finally it came to rest on the bureau—the obvious place for concealing important papers. He examined the bureau carefully. It was of oak, and solidly built. No doubt Hayson had the key with him. In that case—Garve seized a heavy chair, balanced it a moment, swung it above his head, and brought it down on the lock with a crash which he felt must have roused the dead in the Kedron Valley. One of the legs of the chair snapped off, and the whole room shook, but the lock of the bureau seemed quite unaffected. Garve was getting desperate. The clock on the wall was loudly ticking out the seconds, and each tick hammered in his head. Careless now of the consequences, he placed the muzzle of his gun against the lock and fired. The noise of the shot was deafening. He waved the acrid smoke away and examined the bureau. The woodwork round the lock was blackened and splintered, but the lock still held. Again he lifted the chair, and the edge of the wooden seat fell flush on the lock. The top of the bureau rolled back and Hayson’s papers were revealed.